


Lazy Sherlock

by ShinigamiAnateria (ShinigamiKnox)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prolonged arousal, Sherlock has no boundaries, Sherlock just likes to be touched, touch-starved Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8853016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinigamiKnox/pseuds/ShinigamiAnateria
Summary: Sherlock rather enjoys the act of masturbation, not necessarily the climax that comes with it. John has no choice but to witness this rather obscene display. Teasing ensues, followed by John's rather eager participation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Quick story that I hope will help me get back in the groove of writing and into writing Sherlock and John's characters.

Sherlock had mentioned many negative aspects of himself: the violin playing, the occasional cigarette, his silent days and his garrulous days. Over the first week of living together, John got quite the glimpse into the life of Sherlock Holmes. It wasn’t as terrible as those around him had made it sound, but it wasn’t exactly glamorous either.

John found he was able to sleep almost peacefully, well, without dreams or nightmares. John found he slept best when he fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock’s violin. It took about two or three weeks for John's body to become accustomed to keeping up with Sherlock and his job and even then, he would practically pass out upon arriving back at the flat.

A couple months into moving to Baker street, John and Sherlock finally got a night in together, having just finished another case. Sherlock was settled into the settee and John in his chair. Sherlock wasn’t sleeping, but his eyes were closed and his body relaxed. John took this time to observe his flatmate. The room was quiet save the background noise of the fire in the fireplace.

Sherlock had dressed down into his deep blue, silk dressing gown that was open wide on either side of his lean body. He kept his button-down and fitted trousers on but undid the first two buttons of his white shirt. Those long fingers of his tapped against the middle of his thighs while he rolled his head languidly. He took a deep breath and sank further into the cushions.

“It’s late,” his deep voice rumbled.

“It is,” John agreed.

“You’re not retiring,” Sherlock said as a statement.

“No, not just yet.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth upturned just a little. Had John blinked, he would have missed it. “A drink, then?”

“God, yes,” John said with a content sigh before getting up to retrieve glasses. Sherlock moved from the settee to the chair across from John. He was handed a glass with amber liquid and John returned to his seat with his own glass resting on the arm of the chair.

“You wonder a lot.” Sherlock’s gaze was unwavering. John felt like he was under inspection yet again, as if Sherlock hadn’t already read his entire life in the last month.

“Most do.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, most people don’t wonder about me. Most assume. But you, you’re intrigued.”

Watson felt a pleasant warmth in his face, whether from Sherlock’s words or from the alcohol, he wasn’t sure. Without another word, Sherlock’s grey eyes slipped closed with another deep breath. His head tilted back until it rested against the back of the chair. His legs spread wide as he sunk back.

It was odd to see Sherlock sitting still. John knew he wasn’t always active, of course, but to see him actually _relaxing_ without the moody attitude was new.

John watched as Sherlock’s fingers skimmed along the inseam of his black trousers, along the inside of his thigh with one hand while his other kept hold of his glass. Stopping half way up his thigh, his hand shifted back to the top of his thigh. At that moment, John knew the warmth in his stomach wasn’t entirely from the alcohol. Sherlock’s lips parted slightly as he let out another long sigh. John couldn’t help but notice Sherlock’s trousers appearing tighter in the crotch area. John tried to convince himself it was just the way Sherlock was sitting, but experience told him Sherlock was likely somewhat aroused. He tore his gaze away before Sherlock could catch him looking.

John certainly wasn’t going to acknowledge it out of curtesy for Sherlock. He wasn’t even sure Sherlock realized what his own body was doing. Knowing this man, his focus was elsewhere without a care about his transport’s desires.

They sat in companionable silence for quite some time. John felt as if he should excuse himself to his room, leave Sherlock with some semblance of privacy, but John thought if it wasn’t bothering Sherlock, he could ignore it as well.

That was all well and fine, until Sherlock’s hand drifted further up on his thigh and his thumb ran over the zip of his trousers. John practically choked as he attempted to swallow. He covered with a cough then tipped the rest of the liquid from his cup down his throat.

“Mmh,” Sherlock’s voice sounded like a low moan. John stared at the orange embers of the dying flame in the fireplace. “I thought I heard you on the stairs.” He seemed reluctant to pull his hand away from his body to rest it on the arm of his chair.

“Do you do this often?”

“Occasionally,” he admitted, his eyes fluttering open. It took a moment for him to focus on John.

“Right, shall I...?” John glanced towards the stairs before meeting Sherlock’s gaze.

“If you’d like. I don’t mind, but if it makes you uncomfortable...” he murmured languidly.

“Most people seek the privacy of their rooms for that kind of activity,” John muttered as he poured himself a third drink.

“I’ve never claimed to be most people. It’s warmer out here and my bed is currently occupied by an experiment.”

“How did you expect to sleep?”

“I hadn’t.” Sherlock let his eyes close again.

“Ah.” John brought the tumbler to his lips while Sherlock’s hand fell back onto the middle of his thigh. “Has something excited you this evening?” John asked with some apprehension.

“Post-case high, I suppose,” Sherlock exhaled slowly.

“Not a particular person?”

“No. It’s more sensation rather than a person.” Sherlock’s hips rose a little then settled back down. The front of his trousers seemed to strain even more.

“Perhaps a hot bath then?”

“Too comfortable here,” he said with a content sigh. His thumb traced the inseam of his trousers. His digit slid back and forth smoothly. John had a difficult time keeping his gaze away from the slow, steady movements of Sherlock’s graceful hand.

John had accepted his bisexuality at an early age but hadn’t really told anyone. People would have endless questions and John had gotten tired of hearing them. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock knew or even cared. John was sure Sherlock was oblivious when it came to matters of sex if it was anything personal or emotional.

Sherlock dragged the back of his knuckles down the front of his trousers with a soft sigh, effectively pulling John from his thoughts. It was truly obscene how Sherlock’s fingers danced and slid along the smooth black fabric of his tight slacks. His hand shifted to press the heel of his palm against the now-apparent tightness.

John was somewhat curious to see how far Sherlock would go with him sitting right in front of him. Surely, he wouldn’t go as far as an orgasm in the common room— Actually, John wouldn’t put it above him.

Sherlock shifted in his seat again. This time, the silky dressing gown was pulled off one shoulder and halfway down his upper arm. This brought John's attention to Sherlock’s long neck and the dark curls just above on either side. They looked soft; John had an urge to run his fingers through those curls.

Embarrassed, John realised he wasn’t entirely unaffected by this display. With a slow exhale, he moved to put his left ankle onto his right knee, as if that would keep Sherlock from noticing.

“I think I will leave you to it,” John said, feeling a little lightheaded. He downed the rest of the liquid in his glass, returned both the glass and bottle to the kitchen, then made for the stairs. He couldn’t help listening for any of the soft sighs or rumbling deep moans, but not a sound came from the man below.

 

 

This became common place over the next few months. John noticed Sherlock doing this more and more whether aware of John's presence or not. It wasn’t a nervous or anxious action, rather when he found his hands were doing nothing better, they would sort of...drift. John recalled having a similar problem in his teen years, but he’d long since grew out of it.

He also realized Sherlock didn’t often try to achieve orgasm in these dalliances, it was more a comfort to touch, rub, and hold himself rather than a release. John wondered for a short time whether Sherlock even bothered with orgasms before he realized even Sherlock got a bit antsy and short with people without a release once in a while. This he didn’t do in John's presence.

He usually left his trousers done up, but occasionally John would notice the zip down and his hand stroking slowly in his pants. Always, always, John found himself utterly entranced by Sherlock’s graceful, languid movements.

John eventually hit a breaking point; a beautiful man masturbating quite frequently in the sitting room, how could he not?

With a quick smirk, Sherlock sat up straighter on the settee, his bleary eyes focused on John's form in the doorway to the kitchen. “You’ve surprised me, John.”

“Surprised you?” John held back a scoff.

“I didn’t imagine you lasting this long. Your willpower is exquisite.”

John blinked several times without a word.

“Do you really believe I hadn’t known?”

“About?” John asked slowly.

“You talk to Garrett when you’re drunk.”

“Who?”

“Lestrade. Not as though he would breathe a word of it to me.”

“It’s Greg. I’m still unsure of just how much you know.”

“Does it matter? You’re not entirely straight and you adore me.”

“I do not _adore_ you,” John argued, a blush creeping up on his face.

“I pique your interest on more than one front. I arouse you. I don’t need Lestrade to tell me that much.”

“If you’re aware you do that, why do you continue to do so?”

The smirk reappeared for a moment. It was almost similar to the grin he got upon receiving a case. “I want to.”

John shivered slightly at the predatory sound of Sherlock’s deep voice. “Why?” John asked apprehensively.

“It’s nothing more than that, a bodily desire to _touch_.”

“You’re not known to give into base desires.”

“I can multitask.”

“You confuse me.”

“Obviously.”

“You claim to have no interest in sex, in _people_ , yet you seem to masturbate a lot for a man uninterested.”

“I’m uninterested in most people. It seems there are...exceptions. That’s beside the point, however, as I have explained to you, it’s about the pleasurable sensation not about the thought of a specific person.”

“So, you’re not interested.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake...” Sherlock groaned. “Come here.”

Reluctantly, John did so. Sherlock pulled him closer until John was forced to put a knee on either side of Sherlock’s lap. Those damned dexterous hands trailed up John's back then into John's hair. He was pulled down into a kiss.

“You’re part of the sensation, oddly enough.”

“So, you are interested.”

Sherlock groaned again, this time with a smile he hid in the crook of John's neck. That was the beginning of an interesting relationship, to say the least.

 

 

Sherlock continued openly masturbating in their sitting room whenever they didn’t have a case, on boring nights. John was quick to realize that just because he did so didn’t mean he wanted to get off or even be touched by John.

They took to sleeping in the same bed at night and John became privy to Sherlock’s odd habits. He could just _touch_ for hours without moving to do more, much to John's frustration. On nights he couldn’t seem to sleep, he would either bring his hand to his cock or place a pillow between his legs and just _rub_ until he did fall asleep.

Sherlock was a sensual person, much more than John had initially thought. While at the flat alone, soft, slow kisses would occur often. It never felt hurried or rushed. No, when Sherlock pulled him into a kiss, his soft lips, tongue, and wandering hands always felt focused on giving John all the time in the world because he wouldn’t stop what he was doing if he didn’t have the time to do so.

John had thought he had been doing all right for himself sexually, but Sherlock was much more sexual than any of his past partners. At night, John lost more sleep most nights due to Sherlock’s restlessness leading to frottage.

During the day, John and Sherlock made a game out of teasing each other. It didn’t take much to distract John between Sherlock’s tight trousers, fitted shirts, and tapered jacket. All Sherlock had to do was roll his sleeves about halfway up his forearm and John couldn’t take his thoughts off the delicate, soft-looking wrists and stained fingers as Sherlock worked at a microscope.

John fought back by touching Sherlock’s sensitive neck, chest, and running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair when they were alone. When he began feeling more confident, John would slip a hand down to the front of Sherlock’s trousers when Molly left them alone at the hospital. Most days, Sherlock could stave off John's advances until _after_ the work was done. Other days, Sherlock was so sensitive, they barely made it back to Baker street.

Sprawled out beneath John on their (Sherlock’s) bed, completely nude, John ran his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s chest. Flicking both nipples softly, Sherlock pushed up between John's legs, his body reaching up for more. John slid his hands up Sherlock’s smooth, warm skin to his neck. One hand rubbed up and down the side of his neck slowly while John's other hand was lightly massaging Sherlock’s left earlobe between his thumb and index finger. Sherlock’s eyes looked up, unfocused, towards John while his hands rested on John's thighs.

John had fucked and been fucked in some interesting places and positions but none were as intense as simply being with Sherlock like this. It felt more intimate to touch him for hours, to watch him slowly crumble before his very eyes from the calm, collected detective to, well, a melted, aroused puddle of a man. This seemed to be the one area of which he had patience. He was content just being touched and aroused. That was the entire point, it seemed.

Still, John shifted his hips down from Sherlock’s stomach to straddle his hips instead. This put his erection flush against John's arse and lower back. Sherlock pushed his hips up lazily as John leaned down to press a kiss to his lips. Sherlock didn’t stop him from taking hold of himself and bringing himself to a quick climax on Sherlock’s abdomen.

John had reached behind him to give Sherlock the same kind of pleasure, but his wrist was caught and pulled up to Sherlock’s shoulder instead. Sherlock’s fingers ran along the length of John's arms slowly, making him shiver. After more than a couple languorous kisses, Sherlock slipped out from under John to pad off towards the loo to clean off his abdomen. Upon his return, he laid with his front to John's back, his half-hard cock pressed against the back of John's thigh.

 

In public, they tended to keep their hands off one another. Sherlock seemed to have at least learned to keep his hands to himself (and off himself) when not at home. The action that outed their relationship to Scotland Yard was a quick, chaste kiss to John's forehead after a particularly intense chase. John had shrugged the deep orange blanket off his shoulders stayed sitting on the kerb. Sherlock, in a rare moment of tender concern, stepped in front of John and pulled the shock blanket back onto his shoulders. Instead of saying anything, he pressed his lips to John’s forehead for a moment.

Just as quickly, the warmth of Sherlock’s lips was gone and he was looking at John in an analytical way.

“I’m fine,” John reassured him but kept the blanket around his shoulders anyhow.

“There’s just a few more questions,” Lestrade said as he came up behind Sherlock. He looked between John and Sherlock before dropping his gaze to the pavement.

“Oh, surely even you can manage to connect the remaining points, Lestrade,” Sherlock said in his usual curt tone. “I think the good doctor could use some rest.”

“I’m fi—“ John began to insist again, only to receive a swift kick to the ankle of his good leg.

“Just look at him. Exhausted. Hasn’t been sleeping well, poor thing.” It was truly astonishing how Sherlock could look so sincere while not meaning a single word.

With a quiet sigh, he gave a curt nod. “Tomorrow then,” he told them as Sherlock pulled John up by his hands.

“Mm,” Sherlock had barely acknowledged Lestrade’s comment.

“Definitely,” John said at the same time. Instead of dropping both of John’s hands, Sherlock kept a gloved hand around John’s right bare hand. John refused to let them skip dinner, even if Sherlock didn’t eat much, so it was another hour and a half before they were tucked nicely into bed, clean bodies snuggled tightly against one another.

Sherlock was dozing peacefully, caught somewhere between awake and asleep. He had John’s rather muscular thigh between the two of his, providing him with a pleasant warm pressure against his groin when John nuzzled against his neck.

“Oh, and Sherlock?” John murmured softly.

“Mm?”

“I love you, too, you ridiculous man.”


End file.
